#i ended up in fight camp and got busy soooooo here you go before i'm done

[flyingcoffeemugs2]

"Flesh &/ +meat" Chapter 2 ROUGH Excerpt

For the first half of Jamie's life, his Dad had only existed in absence, a chalk drawing on the side walk for a body removed from a crime scene. Blank space. Only years later did he realize that the crime scene was actually his own body and the missing man wasn't the victim but the perp who had a permanent kind of absolution, despite how many finger prints he left for dusting evidence.

That's hindsight for you, always too clear and always too late.

Maybe there was some shame in admitting it, even if it was only to himself, but the idea of his Dad was far better than what reality could ever offer. Loving the absence was easy, a pedestal occupied by the best version of a man who nowadays barely scrapped  the surface of the bare minimum requirements. Maybe a whole other man altogether. 

When it comes to his dad’s temperament, he’s developed a bottle-type system to brace himself for the version of the man that’s on chronic rotation: a full bottle was a warning, an empty bottle was an allegory and a broken one was potentially incriminating evidence. Glass bottles spanning the color spectrum with different labels, cursive or bold lettering lining on top cabinets and store shelves, dictating the trajectory of his life with the kind of authority they had no right in having.

The last time they were inside the same walls, potentially incriminating evidence was mere seconds away from turning into five o’clock news. The only thing that separated them was three steps of cemented stairs, a suburban road with lamps going down in rows, moths dying by the second as they landed on heated glass. Breath rushing his lungs as the cut over his brow dripped blood into his eye, a new brand of terror crushing him with it’s inevitable gravity as he forced himself to run faster.

But there’s no bottle over cell lines, phone towers carrying their communication and leaving him blind as to who to brace for this time. No visual aid. A different kind of blank space. 

With each breath he takes, another layer of frost coats his insides and leaves on the next exhale. The cold air bites at his bare fingers in the Austin Martin and he has half a mind to untuck his fist from his jersey, turn on the car, and put on the heat.

“You there, lad?” Dad’s voice pulls him back into his body, a stretched-out rubber band snapping back into place. 

“What?” He’s sure they were having a conversation at some point but for the life of him he can’t latch onto the auditory information coming his way. 

“Asked if you’d seen Kent on Sky Sport yet?”

Hypothetically, if your Dad doesn’t hit you more than when he does hit you when you’re around each other, is the reality of the situation that your dad doesn’t hit you? Quantifiably, isn’t something that’s higher in frequency more cemented in reality? What’s the tipping scale in a scenario like that? Just thoughts, you know?

He’s spacing out, eyes focusing and blurring on his dashboard as he tries to figure out why he even picked up the phone in the first place, why he dialed Dad when he swore to himself he never would. Swore to his Dad he never would. 

Liar, he hisses to himself internally, bitter vitriol locking his joints, nausea rearing it’s head in his belly. 

“What do you want then?”, he blurts out the question gracelessly before he can help himself, words tumbling out, clumsy on his tongue, jumbled all together. Jamie can feel his muscles locking up.

“What?”

“You asked me to call, and you know. I said when we was talking last time I don’t want to speak to you no more”

“Aye lad, let dead dogs stay dead. And that dog’s been dead half a year now, innit? It’s bare bones now. Don’t matter no more.” Dad says. Bares bones like it means nothing, a carcass picked apart and abandoned, vultures pecking at their recent roadkill. Like anything that happens between them holds the same weight of significance and insignificance simultaneously.  

Jamie hates his dad sometimes.

He hates that he wishes he hated him more and loved him less.

During one of London’s balmier days and Jamie’s less than stellar nights, he had driven Keeley mad to the point where she was actually crossed with him. So he’d apologized, then pestered her to admit she loved him.

Tell me you love me, go on!

Keeley didn’t.

“Jamie, you wouldn’t know what to do with love if it smacked you across your face”

And that had shut him up, hadn’t it? She was right, was the thing. Love smacked Jamie across the face. Frequently. He never knew what to do about it but take it. Take his Dad’s love in all its shit and gold, that wonderful and hideous package deal.

Fucking monstrous amalgamation of a thing. 

Fuck love, anyway.

Loving his Dad had always been a daily exercise in grinding teeth, and here he is again, wearing down the enamel on his molars.

“So, what do you want then?”

“A crime for a father to call his son?”

“Anything can be a crime when you’re involved in it, Da”

“Ay, cheeky brat ain’t you? Told you I saw you play. That’s good. I’m happy, aint I? You’re back where you should be”

Thought where you thought I should be was in Manchester.

“Right. ‘Preciate it”

“Seen Kent’s delivery then?”

“The Sky Sports pundit circle wank?”

“Aye. Talking bollocks. He shouldn’t speak about you that way”

You speak about me that way, he thinks and then wisely holds his tongue.

“That why you called then?”

“No…listen. Got myself sorted out”

“Did you now?”

“Don’t be disrespectful like that, lad. It’s been doing me good. Been getting my nose clean before I phoned ya.”

“How long it’s been then?”

“Since you got all emotional and said we was done”

“Good. Yeah, that’s good then.”

“Your auntie Julie has been putting me up in a center in London. Good bird, your aunt”

“Not in Manchester then?”

“No. The thing about addiction they’re saying is you have to get a new group of friends when you’re trying to get clean”

“Yeah, good, good then. That’s good for you”

“Was calling to ask of you to come see me”

“Don’t think that’s the best idea, Da”

“You too good to see your old man now?”

“No,” he breathes out “That’s not what I’m saying”

“Then what’s the problem? Told you to let dead dogs stay dead. I’m clean ain’t I?”

You almost fucking killed me, he thinks. It’s a sobering thought. Grounding.

“Listen, I ain’t promising nothing”

“You being precious about your fickle feelings again? Said I was clean. What, you want me to say it a third time now?”

“It can’t be like last time”

“Sure”

“Dad, I’m dead serious. We’re done done if it’s like last time.”

“It won’t be lad. Swear down. Just think about it”

“I’m not promising nothing”

“Right, right. I’ll do the promising then”

“You have to mean it. I’m serious Da”

“I’ll mean it”

I promise, I swear I ain’t ever gonna be anything like him, lad

Liar

“Right”

“Jamie” and that catches him off guard “I promise you. It’s gonna be different this time”

“Ok, yeah” he breathes out. There’s nothing more he wants to say as the traitorous feeling of hope slowly warms his insides. “I need to go Dad.”

“Lad, I promise you”

“Yeah, listen, I have a post match debrief with the team” he lies. He doesn’t want to give his Dad anything more than he already has today. He’s given him enough as is. “I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Yeah, love you lad”

“Cheers”